


A New Respect, Level Five: Hummingbird

by Spadesjade



Series: Tom and Michelle [6]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, References to Shakespeare, Reunions, Separations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 13:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3490478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spadesjade/pseuds/Spadesjade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom has to leave Los Angeles.....but soon Michelle comes to London</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Separation

It was a hard day when Tom left.

The night before, he’d stayed as late as he could, but knew I had to get up early for work, so when it was time to go, it was yet another emotional display.

From both of us.

I cried. I cried easily, without being worried of how I looked, how my face twisted, how my nose ran. I buried my face in him and tried to draw as much of him in me as I could. 

Because we didn’t know. We didn’t know when we’d see each other again. We knew we would, we knew it wouldn’t be too long, but there was nothing set. Tom’s schedule was in flux, because I was a new factor, and he’d already set plans before we became a couple, so now new things had to be decided. 

He left me pretty much every movie he'd ever made. His entire catalog sat on my coffee table, for when missing him became too much. Plus he was huge on youtube, so I'd never be wanting. Still, it wouldn't be the same.

He swore to call, text, video chat. I knew he’d do all those things. I knew he would get busy but then he would take time for me. I no longer believed he was going to disappear when he went out that door.

Because he loved me. 

He kissed me, and everywhere else on my face he could reach as I did the same -- until I had to make him go, and even then as I watched him go down the stairs and out of my complex into the waiting car (he’d already returned his rental car) I had to make myself not run after him for one more hug, one more kiss. 

Needless to say, it was hell getting up the next morning. I had dreams I didn’t remember, but I knew they were about him, and the melancholy was a weight in my chest. As I left my apartment and headed down the stairs, I looked at the empty bird bath fountain that my landlord had just turned off. It used to run all the time but now the bottom was dry and cracked and it looked depressing, and the sight of it, coupled with my own sadness, just made me flinch.

The thing used to be a favorite hang-out of one of my favorite birds. 

I was not a superstitious person, but I did have one small weakness. 

Hummingbirds.

They were evasive little creatures. They darted so quickly, and you could never catch more than a glimpse, unless you had a feeder, which I had always meant to get, but didn’t know how to install. Tom would probably put one in if I had asked him. When he came back, I would.

When he came back.

It seemed that whenever there was something truly off, not just one of my paranoid delusions, at some point, I would see a hummingbird, and then I knew everything would be okay.

This was not a hasty decision I came to. When the time came for me to leave Victorville after college and choose a position, I had two offers from two very good hospitals. It was very hard to choose. But I came to the decision, and I told my mother as we were standing in the kitchen of our house.

And at that moment, I saw a hummingbird float past the bushes out the kitchen window. It was the very first time. I took it as a sign I’d made a good choice, and didn’t look back.

This was not the last time this happened. When my dad had his first heart attack, I caught a humming bird outside his window, sipping at the little purple flowers on the nearby tree. He was fine after, hadn't had an attack since. 

When I moved into this apartment, and I saw how the hummingbirds flocked to that bird bath, I knew it was the place I was meant to be. And I’d been there for years. 

Other things came and went. It wasn’t as if I relied on seeing a hummingbird to assure me of a particular decision – it was just that I seemed to notice them at those moments. I grew into the habit of pausing along a particular tree with flowers I knew the little things favored, waiting to see if one would appear. 

I moved through my day slowly. Everything felt muffled, and by the time my lunch break rolled around I needed to get out, so I went for a little walk down the front of the hospital. It was a very beautiful place, with green growing things and flowers starting to bloom. There were Birds of Paradise, their big orange points with their purple insides dangling, and some roses, and other various flowers I didn’t identify.

Something fluttered out of the corner of my eye. I stopped, searching. It was a little thing, its wings moving so fast they were just blurs. Its throat was a bright raspberry, the rest of its feathers vivid green. Usually I only saw females, their grayish appearances only lightly decorated with colors, but this was obviously a male. 

I watched it for a few minutes. It moved through the different Birds of Paradise, its long, thin beak slipping into the dark orange petals, sipping at the nectar underneath. I sipped at the rest of my root beer, which I shouldn't have been drinking. Since the kidney stone, they'd told me to leave off dark soda, and go more for the lemon lime stuff. I only allowed myself root beer when I was feeling down, and I definitely was.

But that little hummingbird was giving me some hope. I knew I'd see Tom. I knew it would work out. I didn't know how, exactly, but when was done with Count Bertram, he would come back to me. And our love was far cry from that which his character shared with Helena. If that could be called love at all.

Then, I looked back, toward the street. And I saw him. Standing there, in his favorite blue T-shirt and his leather jacket and jeans, his sunglasses tucked into the V at his neck, watching me. I had to blink a few times, make sure he was real, not some vision my lonely brain had conjured. 

"Tom?" I whispered.

He came closer. "What are you staring at?" he whispered back.

I turned and looked at the hummingbird. For whatever reason, it had stopped on a branch of one of the smaller trees. It made a sound that I found rather distinctive, a sucking kind of cheep. 

"Oh," Tom said, following my gaze. "Don't see too many of those in England. Let alone sitting still."

"You're...you're still here?"

"My flight is late this afternoon, but before you get off work. I though I would...I don't know. I just wanted to see you."

I felt tears start to prick my eyes. "I'm glad you did," I said, walking over to him. His arms came out and I was between them, my own arms wrapped hard around his torso, my face buried just under his neck. 

We stood there for several minutes. Then, with a final kiss to my forehead, he pulled back, and took something from his pocket. It was a long envelope, and it felt thick.

"I was going to leave this for you," Tom said, "if for some reason I didn't get to see you. It's an open ticket. To come to London. For the play, I hope, maybe toward the end of the run, so we can spend time together when I'm done? It's up to you, of course. But I had to know when we'd see each other again. Before I left, anyway. I'm sure we'll figure out--"

I reached up, pulling his face down, and kissed him. Hard. When we parted, he was breathless.

"I take it you like it," he chuckled.

"I'd give you a lecture about how I don't want you spending money on me," I said, "but one thing my father always says is don't worry about letting someone else be generous. So instead I'll just say thank you."

"I'm sure we'll have things worked out, before this," Tom reassured me. "But sometimes I lack patience." He pulled me closer to him. "It's been hard, waiting for something like this, for me. I used to think that the sun rose and set on getting the kind of parts that I wanted, being able to do the work I wanted to do. And those things are important, but...you've given me something so much more. You've given me an opportunity for a life. I can't begin to imagine being without it, without this, without *you*. I love you, Michelle. This is only temporary, I promise."

I nodded. The tears were running now, sliding down my cheeks.

He tilted his head, and his lips were on mine, and it felt like he was trying to draw me into him, but after a long minute, we parted, and he let go.

"I love you," he said again.

"I love you," I replied, and I went back to work, and he went home to London.

\-------------------

The next week passed as it should. I worked, I went home, I slept. I didn't get to sit around, I had to keep moving.

It didn't hit until my seven-on ended, and my first day off without him started.

I could hardly get out of bed.

It wasn't as if I hadn't heard from him. London was eight hours ahead, so I would get up at six every morning, so that I would be ready for him to call me. Which he did, at two his time, in the afternoon. I would call him on my lunch break, which was usually around twelve or one in the afternoon, depending, which would be eight or nine for him. Our conversations never lasted more than twenty to thirty minutes, and were filled with "I miss you's" and "I love you's" as much as anything else. As time passed he talked more about the production, and I filled his ears with whatever nonsense I could think of. 

He would occasionally refer to me as his hummingbird, as I had told him the reasons for my attachment to the creature -- he said seeing me gave him reassurance. I was torn between telling him to shut up and wanting him to tell me over again a hundred times. 

Now that I was off, our conversations were a bit freer -- and we could see each other on video chat. I certainly didn't want to be up at six to talk to him, but if it was all he could manage then I was fine. And he would call me an hour or so before he went to bed, which was around four or five in the afternoon for me. It was so nice, getting to actually see him. His goatee was growing out, getting thicker while he was working. He was planning on a full beard for Bertram, as full as he was capable. His hair was getting longer as well, the curls going corkscrew. I wished I could touch them. My fingers actually ached for it.

It was easier during that first set. I was able to push off the misery for the novelty of getting to see him as well as hear him. Although his voice was so addicting...and when I didn't get to hear it, it threw me for a loop.

It happened during my second set of days off since he left. I knew they were getting closer to production -- it was going to start mid April, run through to the end of May. We spoke on the first day, and the second, but he warned me that he had events coming up before the play started and he would not be as regular with our conversations.

I thought I was prepared for this.

I wasn't.

I had started following several blogs on Tumblr. Whenever I went looking for pics of Tom from his latest projects, they seemed to have everything, so it only made sense to sign up and follow. It wasn't like any of them would know who I was. And I got to actually see what Tom was doing rather than just hear it related afterwards from him.

So when I saw him at some Victoria's Secret event, it was a bit of a jolt.

It's a difficult thing, to see your boyfriend, who says he loves you, posing with women who make you look like a narwhal. Scratch that. Narwhals are cool. I was a manatee. And even they are too cute. Even the most secure woman would have felt a twinge, how he smiled at the camera, flanked by the slender, beautifully clad willows with his hands on their hips. 

But that was Tom, I told myself. Tom was friendly, Tom was social, Tom was loved by everyone. It would go against his nature to sit around and sulk. This was a man who refused to embrace fear, who refused to be negative. 

And then there was me. I had come a long way, thanks to Tom. But were those changes because of him, or were my inhibitions just being lowered by his influence? Now that he was gone, I was back to wanting to lie on my couch all day, watching television and stuffing my face with chocolate.

Or that could just be my period talking. Yes, a full month had passed since that week recovering from my kidney stones and it was back, and unhindered by other impediments. So this was all being exacerbated by a hormonal influx.

Didn't stop me from feeling like shit.

Another day passed, after the pictures, and I didn't hear from Tom. I sulked, and tried hard not to check my phone every five minutes. 

A day of this behavior has a tendency to make it worse. It was like a self-perpetuating cycle. The more I missed Tom, the more jealous I got, and resentful that he didn't appear to be pining after me. This would make me angrier at him for not calling me. The more he didn't call me, the more pathetically I pined. I fell asleep early and hoped that I would wake up in a better mood.

When the call came at 6 a.m., I rolled over, saw it was him, and didn't answer. I was cranky, afraid of what I might say. He left a voice mail, which I heard barely ten minutes after he left it, unable to stand the suspense any longer.

"Good morning, my hummingbird. I'm so sorry, I know it's early for you, you probably slept right through this. It's been a horribly busy few days, and we open tomorrow, so everything today was frantic and I barely have these five minutes, but I just wanted to hear your voice. I guess I have to settle for your outgoing message, unless you decide to call me back. You'll probably get my voice mail, as well, so this is the best we're going to do. I should be able to actually have a conversation with you by Wednesday. Until then, I love you."

My continued anger was partly vaporized by the happiness in his voice, and the sweetness of his message, but it seemed to regrow itself. Busy? Busy partying with Victoria's Secret models. Tom's words from that night outside the soda fountain, about belonging "in some fantasy club with supermodels who don't look like real human women anyway because all that's just airbrushing," came back, but it sure looked like he enjoyed that fantasy club for the brief visit he made to it. And on top of it, it was just another delay.

I didn't leave him a message. I didn't trust myself to leave something neutral, and I didn't want to sound sullen when he had so much else going on.

I tried to rise above it. I tried so hard. But when Wednesday rolled around and I waited for him to call me again, I felt horrible resentment. I felt so small and like a dog that had nothing better to do but wait for the voice of its master.

Yet I desperately wanted Tom's attention. I wanted it but I didn't want to have to ask for it, I wanted him to know I needed it and give it to me, or better, give it to me because he wanted mine in return, and wanted me to have his and his alone.

But the Tom I knew didn't pine, didn't mope, didn't sulk, and sure as anything wouldn't understand my passive-aggressive behavior. And this started to make me doubt if I really could make him happy. 

What did he see in me? I knew what he told me -- I was loyal, steadfast, and according to him, sweet. I was back to feeling like a dog again. He'd get the same qualities if he got one of them. 

When Tom called, as promised, I still couldn't answer the phone. The one person who had the power to make me happy, and he was the one person who I was blaming for my misery -- and he hadn't done anything!

Stupid period. 

His voice message this time was not so light.

"Michelle, it's me again. I thought you were on your days off -- are you out taking pictures? I can understand. I know it's a good idea to keep busy. I've been busy, I know. Will you call me back, please? Just leave me a message if I can't answer, I just want to hear your voice. Okay, thanks. Love you, bye."

Now I felt bad. I rehearsed, two times, what to say on his voice mail. Just tell him I'm having my period and feeling cranky, I've been tired, I've not been in the best mood, and I miss him so much it hurts? Sounded like a plan. I had to record it three times, each time erasing it because it sounded bad to my ears. I added that I hoped his play was going well and I couldn't wait to see it. I wasn't thrilled with the last one, but I felt ridiculous and just let it go. 

I forgot to tell him I loved him. He'd told me twice. I considered calling back, just to say it. I was debating it when he called.

I answered.

"Michelle," he said, sounding a bit breathless. "We just finished, I'm done cleaning up and I'm heading home. How are you?"

"Did you hear my message?" I asked.

"I didn't listen to it yet, I saw you called not fifteen minutes ago and hoped to catch you. It's been a bit -- I know three days isn't that much, but it's felt much longer."

"It's been five, I think," I managed, my voice feeling tight. "How's it been going? How did your opening go?"

He gushed on for a good twenty minutes about the opening. It was fine -- I wanted him to talk. Him talking meant I didn't have to. And he sounded so...joyful, and excited, and everything to him was bursting with potential for goodness.

"Are you all right?" he finally asked. "I've been going on and on and you've hardly said anything. You should have interrupted me at least three times. Are you feeling any better?"

"Not really," I grumbled, but was determined not to let it out. "But I'll live. Just being rough this month."

"I wish I could be there--"

"No you don't." The words were out, but I had to backpedal. I couldn't sound so resentful. "You love the stage, Tom. You've been excited about this. You're happy, I can hear it in your voice. I don't know the last time I heard you in such high spirits."

"Well..." Flustered? Did he sound flustered? I bit back the urge to say something, afraid that any attempt to erase the notion of bitterness my voice might have held would just make it worse. "That doesn't mean," he said, and I could hear him walking, I could hear the air from outside, the cold early spring in London that I might see some day but was starting to doubt, "that I don't miss you. I miss you terribly."

"You seem to have enough distractions. You look like you were having fun a few nights ago."

"What?" He paused. "What are you talking about?"

"That party, those Victoria's Secret models."

"Where did you see pictures?"

"Online, Tom, of course. Everything you do ends up there, you know that. Especially on Tumblr, they should rename the thing Tom-blr."

He grunted. "You know part of my job is to be visible. People get their pictures taken with me, what do you think I'm going to do? Just because I'm smiling through a distraction doesn't mean I'm not miserable."

I let out a heavy breath. "Tom, I don't want you to be miserable, of course not. But...nevermind. Look, I'm sorry, let's just change the--"

"No, this is important. It bothered you enough to keep you from answering the phone at least once. I know you, Michelle. Which one, the first or the second? Or was it both?"

His tone was remarkably calm. I half expected him to start yelling, but he didn't seem that angry. And for some reason, this made it worse.

"Always think the worst of me?" I snapped. "That's flattering."

To my infuriation, he chuckled. The bastard chuckled. "If it's not true, I completely apologize. Is it true?"

I couldn't lie. "Shut up!'

He laughed again. "Oh, darling, this just makes me miss you more--"

"You are insane. Do you know that? Completely insane! Why are you laughing? You should be pissed at me!"

"Why? You miss me. You have the painters in, so to speak. And you saw me having what you perceived to be a grand time with a handful of women that you think for some reason are superior to you because of their body type."

"Have the painters in? What the fuck is --"

"You're menstrual cycle, love."

"Completely nuts. Mad, isn't that the word you English use?"

"Barmy, off your trolley, potty -- no, not the toilet, darling...but I'm actually just trying to take the piss out of you, if you get my meaning."

I fell silent. I didn't know whether to get angrier or to let him win. Neither option felt satisfying. He was unbearably good and I missed him so much it was a physical ache. Tears started to burn their way down my cheeks. 

"Fine. I'm a horrible person. I want you to be miserable and pine after me just like I'm doing for you, and I know that isn't you, and I know I won't get it, and it makes me a bad person to even want it. And to make things worse, I'm jealous of any woman you put your arm around or even smile at, I don't care what she looks like. But it's not like I can make you ignore half the world population, especially when a good percentage of them are madly in love with you. There. You happy?"

I could hear his smile when he spoke. "I spent that evening with those women telling them about my incredible girlfriend. I showed them your picture on my phone. They thought we looked adorable together."

"Of course, Tom. What were they going to say? That you should dump that fat pig and get a woman more your speed?"

"Darling, I love you," Tom said with a tone in his voice that suddenly made shivers run through my stomach, "but if you ever use those two words in reference to yourself again, I shall take you over my knee. I promise. Do you understand?"

I struggled for words. "I...I wasn't...I was saying that they were saying it--"

"Doesn't matter." Still that tone. 

I snapped my mouth shut. I had already said what I wanted. What more was there? And I knew I wouldn't get what I wanted. Tom was an ocean away -- there was no way to make me happy, no way to ease my fears. There was no reassurance good enough. But that tone...controlling and affectionate and I wanted to hear it tell me that I was the only one, ever, and that all my worries were ridiculous. 

But I didn't want to ask. It had to come from him.

"Michelle, I don't care what they thought, and neither should you," Tom explained. "The important thing is what I was saying. Yes, I was there and I smiled and was pleasant. But I thought about you. All night. And I talked about you, all night."

"Hmm." Still no words.

"I told you this would be difficult, darling," he said, his tone softer now, almost pleading. "Please stay strong for me. I need you to be strong."

"It's hard," I whispered.

"I miss you," he went on. "It's one of the reasons I've had to throw myself into this, because I can't stand to think about it. Because if I did I'd be on a plane to Los Angeles and then my name would be mud because they would never be able to drag me back here."

"Tom, you are off your trolley. You know how much you love your work."

"I love you more."

He waited. I knew he was waiting. I hadn't said it. 

"I love you," I replied. "I love you so much...and in a month I'll be there. I will set a date for the ticket today. I promise."

"Tell me again."

"That I promise--?"

"You know which part." There, that tone. That lovely tone that made me weak and terrified me at the same time. 

"I love you."

"Keep saying it."

I giggled. He wasn't afraid to ask. Or rather, demand. I couldn't be, either.

"I will if you tell me how much more beautiful I am than those...other girls."

"What other girls? I only had eyes for you, my hummingbird."

"Oooh, nice. But I'm going to need a few more details..."

"You want details? I couldn't give you any. I hardly paid any attention. I kept thinking about you in that red dress with the polka-dots, or you in those ridiculous purple scrubs they put you in at the hospital, full of drugs and telling me that you loved me and my sexy hands--"

I was full-throat laughing now. 

"Tom!"

"You were more beautiful in that moment than any model walking a runway dressed in diamonds."

I shut my eyes. "If I disagree with you, are you going to threaten to spank me again?"

"It isn't a matter of disagreement, love. It's a matter of respect. It's my opinion. Do you respect it?"

"Yes." I was surprised at the ease of that word. "I just know how gorgeous you are, Tom. They eye you up like a piece of meat."

"And if I disagree with you, what will you threaten me with?" I could see, in my mind, that wicked little raise of his right eyebrow.

"I'll have to get creative. Most things I could come up with you'd like too much, you dirty man."

"Comes with being English."

I leaned back into my nest of blankets. "Sometimes I have a hard time believing that you think I'm beautiful."

"And I told you I would tell you as many times as you needed to hear it, if my words didn't fall on deaf ears. Because you are. My beautiful Michelle. Why do I have to believe you when you tell me how attractive I am but you have trouble believing me?"

I shook my head. "Lots of people agree with me--"

"Who cares about them? Yours is the only opinion I'm interested in."

I felt a flutter in the center of my chest. This man. "All right, Tom. You've defeated me with your sound logic and reasoning."

A pause. "I'm...sorry? Please tell me that wasn't sarcasm..."

"It wasn't. I meant it. I'm sorry for being unfair. I'm sorry for doubting you."

"Hmmm...and not that it should matter, but I never told you what Alex said to me the next day on set. After apologizing about fifty times for moving on my girl, he said you were hot."

"He did?"

"And that makes a difference, why?"

I flushed bright red. Oh how he had me. "It doesn't," I said. "I was just surprised."

"Maybe I should be jealous."

"No! Tom..."

"Maybe you need to reassure me how handsome you think I am. Talk about my sexy hands again."

"And your arms. Your arms are extremely nice."

He gave a throaty laugh. 

"Tom," I said after another pause, "do you really not believe me when I tell you how handsome you are? Or anyone for that matter?"

"I...um...well...as an actor, I've had to learn to deal with it. I mean, I've come a bit of a way from when I was younger--"

"You were adorable when you were younger," I said warmly.

He chuckled again. "So you say. I was called a bean pole more than once. But now I'm much more comfortable with how I look. I wasn't always. It took time. And I will admit, success has done a lot to boost my confidence."

"But not always," I said, hearing what he wasn't saying.

"No, not always," he admitted. "I'm human, Michelle. Not some being from above sent to ruin lives, as so many of my devoted fans like to say."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"For what?"

"For being selfish. For only thinking about myself; I don't think about you and your insecurities. I guess I forget you have them. You always come across so confident. And Tom, you really are incredibly handsome. I mean, that night at the New Years party, you...you just stunned me. It was one of the reasons I wanted to avoid you. You...you intimidated me."

He seemed to take in this information slowly. "And now?"

"Now I know it was silly to be intimidated...but you still stun me. Not just your looks, but everything you are." Oh God I was going to start crying in a second. "But you don't have to be superhuman with me. You can talk to me. About anything."

"I know I can, love," he said, his voice very soft. "Look, I have to...I have to go. I'll be home rather late, but..."

"Call me whenever. I don't care. Wake me up if you need me."

"Okay. I love you."

"I love you. Break a leg."


	2. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mostly general fluff, some set-up for things to come.

The next month went by quickly because my sister in law finally had her baby.

A little boy. Stephen. He was remarkably handsome for being red and wrinkly. Or maybe I was biased. 

I video chatted with Tom from the hospital on the night she went into labor. Her blood pressure went high and they had to induce labor, so we were all huddled in the waiting room, just waiting for the inevitable to happen. My parents drove down from Victorville, checked into a hotel, and came to the hospital, while her parents were locals and were able to come right away, so we all took turns watching Sarah while Matthew was holed up in the room with his wife. 

"That's not Loki," Sarah exclaimed, her arms crossed and her brow furrowed. Tom just laughed. 

"I know, I look nothing like Loki, right?" he went along.

I shook my head. "I thought she'd believe me."

"Loki doesn't have hair on his face," Sara grumbled. She jumped down from my lap and went to one of her grandmothers, her little pigtails swinging with her gait.

Tom continued to laugh at me. "I told you," he said. "That black wig has saved my ass more than once."

"I'll send you pictures when he finally comes out," I promised, before Tom signed off. I'd known it was only five his time when I texted where I was, but he had insisted on video chat, wanting to see me. He said he was getting up early for his morning run, and would catch a quick nap around noon before he headed to the theater for the matinee. I warned him to make sure he was getting enough rest to sustain himself, and he promised me he would sleep in later tomorrow.

Stephen came out before midnight. He was rather small, but healthy -- they had to put him under the heat lamp for the night so he could warm up. By midnight, Sarah was overtired and ready to have a tantrum, and my parents took her back to their hotel, even though she wanted to come with me. My shift started in the morning, so I knew I could check in on Iris and Stephen throughout the day. 

My shifts off were spent helping out. Stephen had some days saved up and he could take the time to help his wife, but my off shifts were life-saving. My mother stayed with them for a bit and so did Iris', everyone took turns. Before I knew it, Matthew was driving me to Tom Bradley's international terminal at LAX and dropping me off.

It was extremely early in the morning -- I was grateful Matthew could even take me, as my flight was at 7 a.m. and it was five when I got to the airport. It was an eleven hour flight, easy -- my time, it would be almost six in the evening when I arrived, but by London time, eight hours ahead, it would be two in the morning. 

Tom arranged a driver to pick me up, as well as give me the keys to my hotel room, as it would be extremely late -- Tom also arranged for his assistant, a young man named Scott, to check in for me so that I could just go right to my room. But I knew I would be wide awake -- I'd experienced jet lag before, but not on that level.

It was a bit scary, going to a new country. I'd been in Canada about ten years previous, when I went to Niagara, and had driven around the Canadian countryside visiting vineyards that made ice wine, but that was not much of a culture shock. It was a skip away from home, and I'd hardly had to flash my passport at the guards at the border.

This time, I had to go through customs. It was quick, painless, and everyone was nice enough, but I was amazed at the difficulty I had understanding all the accents. I thought British accents were relatively easy to decipher, but I hadn't counted on all the slang.

I could barely keep up with them, they talked so fast. But eventually I made it down to collect my luggage, and found the driver with my name written quite neatly across a white sign in thick black letters. 

"Welcome, Miss," he said. He immediately took my shoulder bag, which contained my laptop. "How was your flight?"

"Very good, actually," I answered truthfully. "First class makes a difference when you're trying to sleep."

"Did you sleep well? It's very late here--"

"Yes, I'm sorry you had to come out so late."

"Nonsense, Miss, London is a twenty-four hour city. I prefer the night shift, actually. Shall we get your bags?"

He grabbed my big bag with ease from the carousel and used a cart to take it all out to the waiting car. However, there was a figure standing by the car, dressed in a hoodie with the hood pulled up. I felt myself tense, and then I recognized that beautiful face framed in gray.

Tom.

His arms opened and I was in them. I grabbed him so hard I swear he was momentarily lifted off the ground. I had my face pressed into his chest and didn't see him reach behind him for the handle of the car door, and didn't realize what was happening until it was already open and he was backing down into it and dragging me along with him.

I couldn't tell if I was sitting on him or straddling him, the way our legs were tangled together on the seat, but it really didn't matter -- we were kissing and kissing and I was breathing him in and my hands were in his thick, coiling curls, his arms around me, not holding close enough as far as I was concerned.

"Tighter," I murmured between kisses.

"I don't want to hurt you," he managed.

"Don't care. Put those sexy arms to use."

He obeyed. I could hardly breathe but it was fine. Anchored to him, it took several minutes for either of us to regain our senses. And then, my lips bruised and my face flushed, I managed to catch my breath long enough to gasp, "It's two in the morning!"

"Close to three by now, actually," Tom said.

"Your final performance is tomorrow! I don't want you too tired because of me, Tom!"

"I don't have to be at the theater until two," he reminded me. "I have a few hours and then I can sleep until noon if I have to. In the meantime, welcome to London." He pointed.

I looked out the window and gave a little gasp. My lovely driver had already gotten us moving, and by now I could see Big Ben and Parliament. "Wow," I breathed.

"Indeed." But Tom was looking at me. I had been so absorbed in every other part of him that I had utterly forgotten his sparkling eyes. 

"How can you be so awake?" I teased him. "I mean, it's only six at night for me and I slept on the plane, but you--"

"You have no idea the adrenaline rush you give me, my hummingbird," he replied, his voice warm as he combed his fingers through my hair. My answer was to kiss his cheeks and scratch at his deliciously full goatee. 

"Mmmm...don't get too used to it. I'm dying to cut it off. A scruff I don't mind but this is a bit much."

"Leave it for a few days," I said, stroking a few fingers over his top lip. 

"You like it that much?"

I nodded, giving him a toothy smile. I pecked his nose before giving him a pouty face. I couldn't do his puppy eyes but I seemed to affect him, the way his expression changed into exasperation.

"Fine," he agreed. "Until Friday. I'd like to go to my mother's clean shaven."

I decided not to worry about meeting his family yet. I was too excited, thinking about seeing him perform live tomorrow night. And I was too excited, just being with him. 

The ride to the hotel was far too short. And I was a bit surprised at how nice the hotel was -- Tom and I had almost had a row over where I was going to stay. He picked somewhere he felt was easy to get to for him from his house, as he planned to keep me there as long as possible. He'd wanted me to just stay with him, but I didn't trust myself.

Being on his lap, in that car, limbs wound together, reminded me why I didn't.

The problem was money. Tom had already paid the ticket, and I was pretty good keeping some in savings for my yearly vacation, so I wanted to cover my own hotel, but the one he picked was a bit out of my price range. He asked me what that range was, and I hadn't to tell him, but he'd wiggled it out of me and agreed to only cover what was above my range. 

It was still almost a hundred dollars more a night. Tom reassured me that he was pretty good with his spendings, too. Sure, he liked a good meal and especially liked the theater and being able to go to movies anytime he wanted, but other than that he wasn't much of a spender, and couldn't think of a better reason to splurge. This man had the same clothes from years past -- he was wearing that black jacket that the fans were always teasing him about with the green cardigan I'd bought him tucked underneath, with his Loki scarf around his neck until I'd removed it to drape it over my own. He had the same iPhone four, that black watch, even his shoes were showing use. 

I gave in. Once I saw the room, I was glad I did.

"Don't get too attached. You won't do more than sleep here," Tom said as I looked around.

"And use that tub," I added, after flicking on the bathroom lights. "Wow."

"Tub and shower," Tom pointed out. The glass shower was in the corner but still had three glass panels, giving it a pentagon shape. A wicked look flashed over his face but he tried to hide it when I turned back to him. "So are you hungry? They have a late night room service here--"

"Tom, you need to go to bed," I said. "It's past three. You have two performances tomorrow. Tomorrow night, if you want to stay up all night, I will stay up with you, I promise. But please, go home and go to bed. Please?"

Puppy eyes. "Trying to get rid of me?"

I shook my head. "Never. But I care about what's good for you." I snuggled into him, resting my chin on his chest and looking up at him. I wanted, so very much, to kiss his throat at the line where his goatee ended, but didn't dare. Although I highly suspected that if I did, I could convince him to do anything I wanted in that moment. 

"All right," he sighed. "I will text you when I get home in case you're asleep."

"I'll be in that tub," I said.

Tom groaned. "You trying to torment me? No, if you were trying to torment me, you'd have said the shower."

I had to bite down on my tongue. Tom saw what I was doing and gave me a glare, and I giggled. "I'm sorry. I've never had such an easy target."

"Go ahead, mock me," Tom muttered, taking a step toward the door. "Mock a man in pain. Mock me mercifully, at least, gentle princess..."

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. "I love thee cruelly,"

"That isn't what Shakespeare meant!" Tom said, exasperated. "Not cruel as in mean."

"Yes, yes, it's late, sweetie, you need sleep."

"He meant extremely, or very very much." Tom opened the door, then turned to me, eyebrow raised.

I practically skipped over to him, and our lips collided before our bodies did. 

"I will call you," he said again. "Scott will be by tomorrow to take you to the theater, so be ready when he says."

"I'll be waiting, pining until I see you again. I totally disagree with that whole parting being sweet sorrow noise."

He kissed me one more time and was finally out the door. 

\----------------------

Tom performance was astounding. Even though I wanted to kill Bertram several times, Tom played him as a full human being.

Because that was Tom. That was what he did.

By the end, I actually believed that maybe Bertram was actually going to be a good husband to Helena. I had read the play, watched the 1981 BBC production, and even read several analytic essays to be prepared. Tom, who never did anything by halves, had really put his shoulder into making Bertram sympathetic. It was in his facial expressions, his delivery, and even though his rebuff of Helena when she asked him for a kiss made me shiver, there was an element of reluctance to it that made me think, for just a moment, that maybe he had other motives for rejecting her. It made his desire to bed Diana later seem almost like some kind of rebound effort of getting over her.

But maybe I was biased.

Scott had given me the special lanyard that would get me backstage, and I went rather slowly, trying to make my way through the crowd. I felt trepidation approaching security, but the second they saw my pass they smiled warmly and even told me how to get to Tom's dressing room after letting me through.

I knocked before entering. Tom called for me to enter and I was greeted by the sight of him standing in nothing but a towel, using a smaller one to dry his hair. I just stood and stared, my jaw hanging, and when he turned and saw me, he immediately turned bright red.

"I'll wait in the hallway," I said, stepping back out the door.

"Wait, Michelle, I'm sorry!" he tried, turning toward me, but then stopping when even the slightest movement threatened the hold the towel had on his waist. 

I paused, and felt the smirk curling my lips. "I am too, but not for the reasons you think." And I shut the door, effectively leading me not unto temptation.

But. Damn.

The door opened about ten minutes later. Tom had his sweats on and that infamous blue shirt I'd seen him in on Tumblr amidst the shrines to his fashion choices. I believed it was the Blue Shirt Of Sex. It wasn't much of an improvement on the towel.

"I'm so sorry," he said again, hands up, palms out, but he, too, was smiling.

"You know, I think I read something about this," I said. "Your tendency to answer doors in nothing but a towel. You really like to play with fire, don't you?"

He gave that bashful laugh as he pulled me closer to him. "If it makes you feel better I've never had it drop on me...after that one time. I'm much better about tying them."

I shook my head. "Changing the subject. You were amazing."

"Oh, thank you, darling," he send, lowering his mouth for a kiss, which I eagerly gave. 

"I mean it," I said. "Bertram is a bit of an asshat, and you somehow...fixed that."

"Well, Alice gave me a lot of leeway," he said, referring to the director. Then he paused, blinked, and looked me up and down. "You're...you're wearing that dress."

I nodded. The red dress with the white polka dots. The dress I was wearing when we met again after so many years. He had looked at me a few times in the audience but I wasn't sure if he noticed. Even though I was in the front row.

"I think I noticed before...but after you walked in on me everything just went--" he made a motion with his fingers against his temple, pushing outward to indicate them emptying from his brain. "Woosh."

"You said to come in!" I protested. "You just let anybody see you in a towel?" I scowled at him. "Just giving it away, aren't you..."

"So, what, if you can't see me mostly naked, nobody can?"

"Would that be a problem?" I knew this wasn't the time or place. Tom was very uninhibited when it came to his body, and the last thing I wanted to do was place restrictions on him, but it still felt like anybody else could see him but I couldn't.

But only by my choice. 

Tom opened his mouth, but seemed unsure what to say. Luckily, we were interrupted by another member of the cast -- the very lovely young woman who had played Helena, a bit ruthlessly, in my opinion. It struck me, more than once, that if the characters had been gender swapped and Helena was played by a man, and Bertram had been a woman, everyone would have sympathized with Bertram being forced into a marriage he didn't want. 

Her name was Rachel and Tom introduced us. I mentioned my theory to her, and she agreed wholeheartedly. 

This chatting led to us all heading to the final cast party, and I deliberately put aside that conversation that had been started with Tom for another time. This was my vacation and I wanted to relish it. 

\-------------------

It was a fantastic evening. Tom's theater friends were warm and gracious, and seemed to enjoy the fact that I was a medical technologist, and an American. And best of all, I was with Tom again. 

There was none of that ickiness that had plagued me during Tom's birthday, none of the self-consciousness and feeling of being judged. Everyone was completely accepting -- and Tom was not treated like a movie star, but like an equal actor, same as any other.

I could tell he enjoyed it too.

True to my word, I stayed up as late as Tom wanted. It had taken me ages to fall asleep the previous night, so I had slept in very late that morning, enjoying the quiet of the hotel room, the food, the tub, and even the hotel pool, as I was sure there wouldn't be another time to use it. 

At around three in the morning, the party finally died down and we slipped out after Tom hugged everyone about four times each. I could tell he was rather emotional about the production ending -- it was hard for him each time he had to say goodbye to a character, as it seemed they became a part of him as much as he became a part of them. It wasn't like reading a book, where you could always start over again. Tom had played Bertram every night for the last six weeks, and matinees, and now it was over.

We idly chatted about it as we held hands and experienced that side of London at three a.m. Tom seemed to know where it was safe and where it wasn't -- I'd heard the story of him being held at knife point more than once, and had no desire to experience it for myself. Finally, at about five in the morning, we ended up at his flat. The sun was just beginning to light the sky, and Tom was finally coming down from the energetic high he'd been experiencing that evening.

"Our sleep schedules are totally screwed," I chuckled as he let me in. It was the first time I'd ever seen where he lived. 

"We'll just have to deprive ourselves to get back on track," he suggested as he turned on the lights in his living room. I looked around, curious. 

"So do I get a tour?"

He showed me everything. Personal artifacts that seemed to come with stories, his extensive library, his study which he claimed was a mess (but coming from a mess I thought it was rather tame), and then toward the bedroom. 

"Or...maybe you don't want to see that," he said cautiously as he pulled the door partly shut. 

I let out an exasperated sigh. "Tom, if it wasn't six in the morning, I would suggest we have a serious talk about this."

"About what?" He seemed genuinely puzzled.

Not wanting to break the mood, I shook my head. "Later. Right now I'm starving. Is anything open for breakfast this early?"

Tom shrugged. "I'm sure, but," and his face suddenly lit up, "you know what would be fantastic? A full English breakfast. Let me check, I think I have everything..."

"Just no beans," I called after him. 

Tom gave a gasp. "No beans? Oh, yes, I remember now. Well, your loss."

It turned out that a full English breakfast, even without beans, was a rather fabulous thing. He dutifully cooked my eggs over hard as I requested, made sure my toast was very lightly done, and gave me the fattiest pieces of bacon. The sausage, fried tomato, and mushrooms were all quite delicious as well and went perfectly with everything else. 

"It's my turn to treat you," he teased, "especially since you cooked for me so well when I stayed in L.A."

"Mmmmm," was all I could say around a mouthful of food. When I was finally stuffed, I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my aching stomach. "I think I need to run by the hotel for a change of clothes. I've been in this dress all night and I'm starting to feel groaty."

"Groaty?"

"Unshowered," I answered. "And when are we going to your mother's again?"

"Friday...which is something else I wanted to ask you. Could we make that caramel tart that you made for me on Valentines? The one with the chocolate and the pecans?"

"We?"

He nodded with a grin. "I want to help. I even bought a tart dish for us to use. Mom will love it, she's a sucker for caramel, and she'll love that stuff you made from scratch."

"We should do it today so the caramel gets a good long time to set," I suggested.

"We can go to the store. After making this breakfast I'm going to need to refresh my pantry supplies."

"So maybe you should do that while I go back to my hotel to clean up and change," I suggested.

"Mmmm..." His eyes narrowed at me as he turned his head to the side. An expression I was familiar with. "No, I don't want to split up."

"It will go faster."

"I'm on vacation. My girlfriend is here from the states. I'm not interested in faster," he said, reaching for my hand.

"Well you're not hanging out in my hotel room while I change," I said lightly.

"Do you have to change?" he asked. "I adore you in that dress. In fact--" and he got up and scurried from the room, to return a few minutes later with a silvery long box that looked very distinctly like it held jewelry.

"Tom, what is that?" I asked as he pulled his chair closer to mine and sat with his elbows on his knees, the box perched between his big hands with those long fingers I adored.

"This...is for you," he said, looking up at me with those raised eyebrows and those huge blue eyes that turned me into Ms. Compliance. Or should I said Ms. Puddle of Goo. "I was going to make a bigger deal out of it, but personally this is already one of my favorite memories. One of those warm and fuzzy moments that will keep coming back to me again and again whenever I need a pick up."

I smiled at him. I'd shared that notion with him weeks ago, and how you could never figure out exactly when one of those kind of memories were going to be made, but you knew them when they came. Those moments that you think of when you want to be happy or comforted. 

He lifted the lid off the box. Inside lay a gold chain, and a hummingbird pendant attached to the end. The pendant was covered with little stones, the feathers in a lighter green, the head in a dark green. The breast was covered with bright pink. The attachment to the chain came from the raised wings, and the hummingbird's head was slightly bent down to show the long pointy beak.

 

I knew I should say something, but my wide eyes and stunned smile must have said it all. Tom lifted the chain and undid the latch, holding it up to me.

I immediately lifted up my hair.

Tom stood and slid the thing around my neck. Between the warmth of his hands and the cold of the metal, I knew what he meant about creating one of those perfect memories. When he latched the thing into place, it slid against my breastbone and stopped right above the collar of my dress.

Tom came around and lifted my chin with two delicate fingers. He gazed at the pendant and smiled. "Just like I figured. Perfect."

"I love it," I whispered, and stood up. His arms wound around me and I pulled myself up as high as I could to kiss him. I was half tempted to just stand up on the chair, even if it made me taller than him. 

Breaking the third kiss, Tom reached behind him with his foot and slid a little stool toward me. Without asking, I immediately climbed up on it, and chuckled when it made me a good half-foot taller than him.

"Perfect, actually," I said as I drew him closer and kissed him to my heart's (temporary) content.


End file.
